


The Sea Will Open in Your Veins

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, spn_summergen08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-26
Updated: 2008-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You hate the beach. You've <cite>always</cite> hated the beach."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea Will Open in Your Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to angelgazing for handholding, and to luzdeestrellas for betaing. Written for stars91 in the 2008 [**spn_summergen**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_summergen/) ficathon.

"Seriously?" Sam says, looking skeptically at the row of tiny faded-pastel bungalows. "Are you sure this is the place Bobby suggested?"

Dean's mouth twists in annoyance. "Dude, I'm not a moron."

"I know you like to believe that, despite all evidence to the contrary." It's so easy to slip back into their usual back-and-forth, to pretend everything's the way it's always been. It's what they've always done before. It's comforting, in a way, even if Sam knows they can't keep it up. "The Beachcomber? Seriously?" It's after Labor Day, but it's still hot enough to fry eggs on the asphalt of the parking lot, and Sam thinks he can feel the skin on his neck burning.

Dean flips him off and pushes open the door to the motel office. A little bell rings, announcing their presence with a silvery chime, and a white ceiling fan whirrs overhead, doing very little to cool off the small, bright room.

"May I help you?" The woman behind the desk is probably in her mid-fifties, long blonde hair fading to silver at the roots and a little birthmark just below the left corner of her mouth like a flirty punctuation mark. She's beautiful, even with laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, and Sam glances over at Dean to see how he's going to respond.

"Got a reservation," Dean says, flashing his best smile. It's a little frayed around the edges--Dean won't talk about what happened to him in hell, tries to act like it was nothing, and Sam's not sure he'll ever be ready to hear it--but it's still a powerful force. "Under the name of Ramone."

"Are you Johnny or DeeDee?" she asks, smiling back. Sam wonders if she used to be a model or an actress or something, because she's stunning when she smiles. The nameplate on the desk says Marie Campanile, which doesn't ring any bells.

"I'm Joey, actually," Dean says, and they smile at each other in a way that makes the hair on the back of Sam's neck prickle. "Seriously, though, I'm Dean and this is Sam, and we don't actually have a reservation. We were hoping you'd have a vacancy since the season is over." He taps the credit card--Dean Daniels, it says, and Sam tries not to frown, because when did Dean have a chance to get new credit cards?--on the counter.

"I think we can accommodate you. One king or two queens?"

"Two queens," Dean says, handing over the card. "Overlooking the water if possible."

Sam shoots him a startled glance, but doesn't say anything.

"All of our bungalows have living rooms that open directly onto the beach," she answers. "Let us know if you need anything. Just dial zero on your room phone, or stop by the office. Oh, and you'll need beach badges."

"Thanks, Marie." Dean gives her another bright smile and takes the room keys and beach badges. They push their way back out into the heat, and he says, "Dude. She is totally MILF material."

Sam laughs in agreement and wishes he knew what was going on underneath Dean's exceptionally Dean-like exterior.

Once they've carted their bags inside the small blue bungalow--number six painted on the white door--he says, "You've never asked for a room with a view in your entire life."

The bungalow has a small living room with a couch, an easy chair, and television; the room is backed by sliding glass doors that open out onto a small patio, and beyond that is the beach, the sand bright white and the water sparkling in the sunlight. To the left, there's a kitchenette, and to the right, the bedroom and the bathroom. The furniture is all wicker and light pine, blue and white stripes on the couch and curtains.

It's nicer than most of the places they stay, for all that it looks weathered and shabby from the outside.

"We're down the shore, Sammy. We should enjoy it." Dean grimaces at the white ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead and turns on the air conditioning. It hums to life with a rush of cool air. Dean peels off his blue button-down, tosses it onto the bed, and stands in front of the air conditioner for a few seconds in his t-shirt, blocking the air flow.

Sam thinks about jostling him out of the way, but doesn't. "You hate the beach. You've _always_ hated the beach."

"What?" Dean turns to face him, surprised. "No, I don't."

"Sunburn, riptides, nasty seagulls, man-eating sharks, and sand in places sand should never be." Sam's heard the litany of complaints so often he can repeat it verbatim, with accompanying gestures. He'd gone to the beach often enough once he was in California to make up for the sad lack of it in his childhood, and had to concede that Dean had had a couple of good points. "Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh. Well." Dean shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "It was just easier to tell you the beach sucked than to tell you that Dad wouldn't let us go." He sits down on the couch and starts unlacing his boots. "And you're forgetting the one thing that makes up for all the suckitude." Once he's got his boots and socks off, he starts rolling up the cuffs of his jeans.

Sam purses his lips, skeptical. "And what would that be?"

Dean just gives him that sunny smile again, and Sam knows he should be glad to see it, because it means Dean's doing well, but right now, he just thinks it means that Dean's hiding something. "Girls in bikinis."

Sam nods his head reluctantly and laughs. "Okay, point." He drops down onto the easy chair, unexpectedly sinking into the overly soft seat cushion until his shoulders are nearly level with his knees. "But I don't have swim trunks."

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. He grabs the oldest pair of Sam's jeans out of Sam's duffel, the ones that are more holes than jeans, and says, "I'll buy you a new pair in town," as he takes the scissors to the knees.

"Yeah," Sam says around the ache in his chest. "Okay."

***

There aren't many people on the beach--a family of four tossing around a Frisbee, a woman with a toddler in a floppy hat and Little Mermaid bathing suit, and two teenage girls in bikinis who look young enough to make Sam feel like a pervert for even looking at them. He can see more people down the shoreline--even if the season is technically over, it's still hot as fuck, and there are also people who live down here all year round.

Dean ambles out to the edge of the water, hands shoved into his pockets, and if Sam didn't know him so well, he wouldn't be able to see the slight hitch in his step, the way he favors his left leg. Dean swears it doesn't hurt anymore, but Sam's seen him brush off bullet wounds and concussions, so he has a hard time knowing what to believe. He still doesn't know the full extent of Dean's injuries; there are scars on Dean's body he can't account for, and Dean acts like they aren't even there.

"Dean," he calls, jogging after him, bottle of sunscreen in hand. "You need to--" He gestures with the bottle of Coppertone. "You should have put it on before we left the room."

Dean's eyebrows go up in disbelief. "What?"

"You should put it on before you go out into the sun. That's what Jess always said, and she practically lived on the beach." He doesn't stumble over her name anymore, doesn't feel anything but a vague pang of sadness for her, and for his other life. Nowadays, it seems like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Dean grumbles but holds out his hand and Sam slaps the bottle into it. Dean squeezes some lotion into his palm and starts rubbing along his arms--the left is tanned and freckled from hanging out the car window for the past couple of weeks, but the right is significantly lighter. Sam remembers some of the sunburns Dean got when they were growing up, the water blisters and the long strips of peeling skin afterwards, leaving him even more freckled than before, and still prone to burning if he stayed in the sun too long.

The teenage girls have been joined by friends and they prop themselves up on their elbows to watch as Sam lays out the plaid blanket from the car on the sand and drops his towel and t-shirt onto it.

"Be careful," Dean says, frowning, as he comes back to the blanket and Sam heads towards the water. "I don't feel like taking a swim, so don't make me come in after you." He's wearing his sunglasses and Sam can't see his eyes, can't gauge his mood from more than his flippant tone and half-smirking expression.

Sam shrugs a shoulder. "Whatever." He takes a few steps, turns back to check on Dean, who's standing next to the blanket with a puzzled look on his face. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah. Go for your swim, Nemo." Sam still hesitates, but Dean sighs and shoos him towards the water, so he goes, checking to make sure his beach badge is still pinned to the pocket of his cut-offs.

It takes a few seconds for him to find his stroke--he can't remember the last time he swam in the ocean--and then he's cutting easily through the waves, the water cold and rough against his skin, the strong pull of it carrying him away.

He turns a couple of times, sees Dean in the distance, his white t-shirt almost glowing in the afternoon sunlight. First he's talking to the teenagers, then the mother with the toddler. The next time Sam looks, Dean is helping one of the kids from the family of four build a sandcastle, the yellow shovel and orange bucket looking small and ridiculous in his hands.

Dean is back at the blanket when Sam returns to shore. As he's toweling off, Dean says, "According to Charlotte, we should go to Joe Pops for dinner."

"Charlotte?"

The pretty blonde girl in the white bikini giggles and waves.

Sam stills, lowers his towel from his hair, and whispers, "Dean, that girl is, like, fifteen."

"Dude, chill. I know." Dean shakes his head and snorts incredulously. "I was just asking around for good places to eat, and she's local, okay?"

Sam sighs. "Okay."

***

Though it wasn't visible in the bright late afternoon sunlight, when Dean comes out of the shower, Sam can see how sunburned he is.

"Sunscreen," he's muttering, staring at his face in the mirror, raccoon-eyed where his sunglasses protected him and bright red everywhere else. "Fucking useless bullshit." His neck and arms are burned, and his ankles and feet, as well, which has to hurt like a bitch, but Dean wouldn't be caught dead in flipflops, so he pulls on his socks and boots when it's time to go to dinner, muttering curses the whole time.

Sam wants to shake him for how he'll bitch and moan about something relatively minor like a sunburn, but go all stoic and manly when real injuries are involved and he actually needs help. All Sam says, though, is, "Suck it up, you big baby." Dean flips him off, and Sam can't blame him. After all, he's got a nice tan to show for his afternoon in the sun.

"We should stop off at the office, get a map of the island," he says.

"It's not that big, Sam. I think we can find our way."

"Still." It's an old habit, one he's never broken; even at Stanford, he had a collection of maps and atlases that had made Jess roll her eyes and mutter, At least we'll never get lost. All of it had burned up in the fire.

Dean sighs, as if there were ever a chance he wasn't going to give in. "Fine."

Dean's phone rings at the door of the motel office, and he stays outside to take the call while Sam goes inside. There's nobody behind the desk, and Sam fiddles with the brochures in the rack for a couple of minutes before he notices the series of pictures hung on the wall. They start out in black and white, stark and beautiful in their matte silver frames--he remembers Jess framing pictures like that when she took photography spring semester of her sophomore year--the beach and the motel from sometime in the nineteen forties, if he's any judge of the big black cars in the parking lot.

There's a trio of women in the pictures who look like they're related to Marie--her mother and aunts or something. They all have that same breathtaking smile. There are pictures from each succeeding decade, the paint on the bungalows slowly fading once the pictures are in color, the shoreline receding and growing again, as the state fought erosion.

There's a picture of Marie from sometime in the eighties, smiling, long blonde hair blowing in a breeze and the ocean sparkling in the distance, and Sam catches his breath at the sight.

He's reaching out a hand to touch the frame when Marie says, "Can I help you?"

He turns, startled. "It was beautiful," he blurts, embarrassed at being caught.

"Still is," Marie says, smiling. "A little past its prime now, but who isn't?"

"You still look fantastic," Dean tells her as he enters the office, and Sam can tell he's being honest. "My co-pilot here would like a map of the island, if you've got one."

"Oh, of course. Where are you planning to go?"

"I told you, you should totally go to Joe Pops. There are no bands tonight, but the DJ is totally rocking." The girl, Charlotte, still wearing her bikini top but with a flimsy skirt wrapped around her hips like a sarong, comes out of the office. "And the food is way better than the Ketch." She has the same bright smile as Marie, and though she's still in that awkward teenage phase, Sam can tell she'll be a knock out when she grows out of it.

"Joe Pops tonight." Dean nods at Charlotte but directs his attention to Marie. "Any place you recommend for breakfast in the morning?"

"There's Uncle Will's Pancake House, or the Bayside Diner," Charlotte answers, leaning on the counter and trying to hold Dean's gaze while Marie rifles around in a desk drawer before coming up with a map. "I think the coffee's better at the diner."

"My niece is a bit of a restaurant critic," Marie says, touching the girl's shoulder gently. "Either will do you, though the diner stops serving breakfast at twelve on the dot."

Charlotte nods. "They're pretty strict about it, too."

"You might be able to charm Dorothy into bending the rules," Marie says. "But Loretta is pretty charm-proof." She smiles at Dean and offers him the map.

Dean grins in response. "We'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Marie." Before Sam can reach for it, Dean takes it and slaps him in the chest with it. "Come on, Sammy. We haven't eaten since breakfast and my stomach's about to start gnawing on itself."

Sam follows him out into the humid night, sure that something happened, but not what. He's too happy that Dean's appetite has come back to care.

They have a decent dinner at Joe Pops--bacon cheeseburgers and fries and onion rings--and Dean flirts with the waitress, but it doesn't go anywhere. Even she can see he's half-hearted and kind of mechanical about it. Sam thinks he's doing it out of habit, and remembers the weeks after Dad's death, how off-kilter Dean was then. He wonders what secrets he's carrying now, and how to ease the burden.

The music shifts from familiar classic rock and top forty to pounding techno when the deejay shows up, and Dean doesn't want to stay for the dancing. On the advice of Charlotte's friends, they go to the Hudson House, which seems to be exactly Dean's kind of place, Led Zeppelin loud on the jukebox, free-flowing beer, and a pool table in the back room. It's not that crowded, but Dean turns heads as they walk through the bar, even with his unfortunate sunburn, and Sam wonders if he should encourage Dean to hook up, if it's the kind of thing he should be doing to get better, or if it would just make everything worse.

They play a few games of pool, but there's no one around to hustle, and Dean still tires easily, though he tries to hide it--he hasn't slept through the night since they brought him back, though there's a lot less flailing and screaming now. Sometimes, Sam still wakes up to find Dean sitting in a chair, watching him, but he doesn't get up himself anymore. I'm all right, Dean says. One of us should get a full night's sleep. And Sam pretends to sleep until he finally does.

Around eleven, Sam makes a face like he's getting a headache, so Dean will leave without having to admit that he's worn out.

The bungalow is nice and chilly when they get back, and Sam flips on the TV; they're in time for the end of The Daily Show. Dean wanders around the room like he doesn't know what to do with himself since they're not working, and after The Colbert Report, he goes to bed. Sam thinks about staying up, but finds himself more tired than he expected; the beach always did suck the life right out of him.

He dreams of the beach, of swimming and swimming, no land in sight. Something is drawing him onward and he can't stop, can't turn back. He can feel his arms and legs grow heavy with exhaustion as he tries to push himself forward through the heavy surf.

The water is closing over his head when he wakes, gasping, the sound of Dean singing in the shower replacing the rush of waves from his dream. He can't help but smile, because it's the first time since they got Dean back, and Sam has really missed hearing him bellow "You Shook Me All Night Long" over the steady beat of the shower. He shakes off the lingering unease from the dream that's already fading from his memory, and starts getting ready for the day, feeling more refreshed than he has in a long time.

***

They go to the diner for breakfast, and Dean charms both the soft-touch Dorothy and the impervious Loretta with his enthusiasm for coffee and food. Sam lets himself relax, the tension in his neck and shoulders easing as he watches Dean shovel hash browns and sausage into his mouth, and then gesture wildly with his fork as he pontificates cheerfully about the best way to make hash browns, no fear of choking or weird cutlery accidents, no threat of demons or hell hanging over their heads.

"You're in a good mood," he says when Dean finally gives him a chance to slip a word in edgewise.

"A good night's sleep can work miracles," Dean answers. Sam smiles and decides not to push. It's not like there are any details, though he knows Dean would make shit up just to mess with him if he asked.

They can do this, he thinks, though he isn't sure what _this_ is, or what it will be after this little vacation is over. He's not sure he can watch Dean throw himself in front of monsters to save strangers, to save _Sam_, without ever thinking of himself (or what life was like for Sam without him), but he isn't sure they can give up the hunt, either. It's been their whole lives, and now Sam's in it as deep as Dean is, the safe, normal life he'd dreamt of as a kid a ghost that was laid to rest three years and a million miles ago.

"I think we should go see the lighthouse," Dean says, after he's cleaned his plate and had his coffee topped off for the third time.

"I'm not climbing to the top." Sam finishes the last mouthful of his omelet and glares at Dean.

"Wuss."

"It's hot, it's cramped, and there are a lot of stupid spiral stairs." And it's not like Dean doesn't have to crouch, too, even if he is a few inches shorter.

Dean starts clucking like a chicken.

"I'm not twelve anymore, Dean, that's not going to work."

"Aw, come on, Sammy. I'll take you to Schooner's afterward and get you an ice cream cone." Dean grins at him, and Sam feels exactly the way he did at twelve, and eighteen and twenty-two. He wants to do whatever Dean wants him to do, and he wants to do exactly the opposite. "I bet you can see the whole island from up there."

"I thought you were claustrophobic."

"I'm not claustrophobic. I just don't like planes." There's real fear underneath the irritation in Dean's voice. "The lighthouse is anchored to the ground. It's not going to fall out of the sky from thirty thousand feet."

Sam sighs, and his exasperation is only slightly feigned. "Fine. If you can beat me at mini golf--and we all know you can't--we'll go to the top of the lighthouse. If you can't, then we'll do what I want this afternoon." He's already thinking about going swimming again, riding the waves out to the horizon, the sun in his eyes and the water cold against his skin.

Dean grins beatifically. "Fine."

Sam nods and signals the waitress for the check.

***

Dean drops him off at Wawa, claiming he needs to go back to the room for something.

"You better turn on the fan and open the window in the bathroom," Sam says before he gets out of the car. "I don't want to come back to a room that smells like a sewer exploded."

Dean snorts and gives him the finger. "I'll be back in half an hour, forty-five minutes at most. You okay with that, princess?"

Sam nods and ignores the little flip of fear in his belly he gets now every time he watches Dean drive away.

He picks up some sandwich supplies, snacks, and a couple of sixpacks for the room, and makes Dean drive back there again to drop it all off, because he doesn't want it sitting in the trunk in the sweltering sun.

Dean's phone rings when they're scoping out the various mini golf places. He glances at the number and puts it back into his pocket. It starts ringing again after a minute or two.

"You gonna answer that? It could be important."

"Nah, it's just Bobby. I'll call him later. I've got to concentrate on kicking your ass at mini golf now." He pulls into the Pirate's Cove Miniature Golf Course and flashes a mischievous grin that immediately puts Sam on his guard. There are many opportunities for humiliation on the mini golf course, and now Sam's going to be worrying about all of them.

By the time they get to hole sixteen (the buried treasure) of the eighteen hole course, Sam's not winning by as much as he expected. Given the crazy way Dean is keeping score--which has nothing to do with accepted mini golf scoring methods but has been family tradition as long as Sam can remember--Sam's actually not sure he's winning at all, which was really not part of the plan.

He's about to suggest best two out of three, just in case, when the squeal of sirens cuts him off. They both turn to watch as a police car and an ambulance tear down the main strip.

Dean's grin twists, curiosity clear on his face. "You wanna blow this popsicle stand and see what's going on?"

Sam wipes the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his sweaty hand and says, "Yeah."

They follow the police car and the ambulance back to the motel, and Dean's forehead is furrowed in concentration. They're getting out of the car when Sam's phone rings.

"Hey, Bobby."

Dean pauses, but Sam waves him on, and after a second's hesitation, Dean heads towards the crowd gathering on the sand, looking a little too eager to talk to people.

"How you boys doing?"

"Pretty good. Hot, though. I might even be able to convince Dean to go for a swim later." Sam leans against the car, runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and laughs at the thought of Dean in a bathing suit. It's been years since he's worn one. "How are you?"

"Good, good. There a reason your brother ain't taking my calls?"

"What?"

"I got that book he was looking for, left him a couple messages, but he hasn't called me back."

"Bobby, I'm sorry. He's still a little--you know. I think last night is the first night's sleep he's gotten since..."

Bobby sighs. "Yeah, okay."

"I think this vacation thing was a really good idea, you know? He's doing good, though. We both are."

"Glad to hear it, Sam. I really am. Let him know that next time you swing by, he can pick it up. Jo thinks we should scan it first, so we can make copies. Girl wants to do that with my whole collection; says she's going to organize it, like I don't know where everything is already."

"No, but it'd be useful to have copies of stuff available electronically," Sam says. "You could just email us instead of having us show up on your doorstep all the time."

Bobby laughs, but he says, "You know you're always welcome here."

Sam does know, but after everything that's happened, it's nice to hear Bobby say it. He knows Bobby's only slightly more tolerant of touchy-feely moments than Dean is, though, so he just says, "So did you and Marie have some kind of youthful fling or something? Is that why you sent us here? Are we gonna get some kind of discount if we mention your name?"

"What?" Bobby sounds startled. "Who? What?"

"Marie, the owner of The Beachcomber."

"The Beachcomber?"

"The motel on Long Beach Island? The Jersey shore? She still looks good, Bobby. You might have some competition from Dean." Sam laughs again. "He's always kinda liked older women."

"Long Beach Island? What the hell, Sam? I gave Dean the keys and directions to Dave Humboldt's old hunting cabin down in West Virginia. He died in the Roadhouse fire, left everything to Ellen."

"Son of a bitch." Sam stops laughing. "Now we know why he wasn't taking your calls. I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm gonna have to call you back."

"Sam--"

"He told me--" Sam stops and thinks of what Dean's said and done since they arrived.

"Don't be too hard on him. I'm sure he's got his reasons. He always did have a weakness for a girl in a bikini."

"Yeah, Bobby. I'm sure he does. I just don't think it's got anything to do with girls in bikinis."

"You call me if you need anything, Sam."

"I will."

Sam hangs up and stalks to where Dean is standing. Now that Sam is looking for it, he can see that Dean is in hunting mode. He's got his sincere face on, and he's talking to one of the cops, something he'd never do otherwise. "Yeah, we saw him playing Frisbee on the beach yesterday," Dean is saying. "He didn't look depressed, but we didn't really talk much."

Sam can see Marie leading Charlotte back into the motel office; Marie's face is impassive, though her lips are pressed together tightly and she looks older in the bright sunshine than she does in the softer lighting of her office. Charlotte looks pale and stricken, like she's going to be sick. Sam sympathizes, but forces himself to look past the crowd and the cops to the bloated body they're circling. He doesn't have to be a genius to know they're going to call it an accidental death.

"The riptides are pretty fierce," he says, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing tight, both to take comfort in the fact that Dean is here and safe, and to warn him that he's onto his game. "I was out swimming yesterday afternoon, and it was definitely rougher than I'm used to."

"Last remnants of Hurricane Laura blowing itself out down in the Carolinas," the cop says, nodding. "Always makes the water rough for a few days. You boys be careful out there."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, and Sam knows he's the only one who can hear the mocking undercurrent when Dean uses that tone. The cop nods again and walks back to his colleagues.

Sam tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder, trying to guide him away from the crowd that's gathered.

Dean turns his head, squints into the sun and says, "How's Bobby?"

"He's great. He's got that book you were looking for." Sam's trying for casual and failing; it comes out sounding snotty.

Dean's mouth quirks up in a half-grin. "That's good."

"He also seemed surprised that we were in New Jersey when he'd sent us to West Virginia. And a little bit hurt that you've been dodging his calls." Sam's voice is tight and even, and he drops his hand from Dean's shoulder, trying to keep it from curling into a fist at his side.

"Sun, sand, surf--come on, Sam. This is way better than some hunting cabin out in the woods that probably doesn't even have cable."

"Dean--"

"You wanted a vacation. Don't even try to deny it."

"This isn't a vacation, Dean. It's a job." Sam glares and clenches his jaw against the urge to yell.

Dean shrugs and won't meet his gaze. When he speaks, he speaks very quickly, and at a slightly higher pitch, like Sam doesn't know that's how he sounds when he's trying to talk himself out of trouble. "Maybe, maybe not. I mean, it could be. I just thought--"

"Dean." A warning.

Dean sighs and drops the act. "Larry Hoffman is the fourth body that's washed up this summer. All of them were guests here." He tips his head towards The Beachcomber's faded bungalows.

Sam feels a little chill shiver down his spine. He ignores it. "I thought we agreed to take a break, Dean."

"No. You and Bobby agreed. I never said I did." Dean spits the words out, jaw working angrily, and his voice is bitter. "I wasn't _asked_."

"You were in hell, Dean." He keeps repeating Dean's name like it's a prayer, like saying it means Dean is safe, like it will tie him here.

"No fucking shit, Sherlock. Do you think I don't know that? That every second of every day I don't--" He stops, all the anger in his body dissipating. He throws up his hands, though Sam's not sure if it's in defeat or defense. "I'm not doing this with you, Sam. Not now, and not here."

"Then, where, Dean, and when? Huh? Because I don't know if you know this, but you're not hiding anything from me. When you wake up in the middle of the night, I hear you. I see you sitting up, waiting for the sun to rise." He doesn't mention the part where Dean watches him pretending to sleep. He has the same impulse, the same fear that if he lets Dean out of his sight for too long, he'll disappear. "You're not the only one not sleeping."

Dean shakes his head, and his voice is low, urgent. "I've gotta get back in the saddle, Sam. Gotta know I can still do the job."

"You don't, Dean. We don't have to--"

"Yeah, Sam, we do." He takes off his sunglasses, the band of white around his eyes startling against the dull red of his sunburn. He runs a hand over his face, as if wiping the last of his bravado away. He looks tired. "_I_ do."

***

Once they're back in the room, Dean hands over a folder stuffed with printouts of newspaper articles, obituaries, and histories of Long Beach Island, all of which have notes scribbled on them in Dean's tiny, blocky handwriting.

"There were three other deaths," Dean says. "Rob Cahill in June, Jean-Paul Tremblay in July, and Jake McCarron in August."

Sam skims the obituaries. "A college student, a high school math teacher, and a retired guy. What's Hoffman's deal? Any connection between them?"

Dean raises an eyebrow and takes his pen out of his mouth. "Other than that they were all men, they all stayed at The Beachcomber, and they all drowned?"

"Other than that, yeah."

"Isn't that enough?" Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. "It's obviously some kind of sea creature. Which means salt ain't gonna do jack to hurt it." He taps the pen against his teeth. "You think we're gonna need a bigger boat?" His eyes go all faraway and dreamy.

"Since we don't have a boat in the first place," Sam starts, then waves a dismissive hand and decides it's not worth it. Dean's not paying attention anyway.

"Or maybe a harpoon gun? You think we could get a harpoon gun, Sammy? A harpoon gun would be so freaking awesome."

Sam bites back a smile. "Consecrated iron rounds should do the job, as long as it's not, like, the kraken or something." He holds up a hand to forestall Dean's inevitable Jack Sparrow imitation. "What does Dad's journal say?"

Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh and says, "Consecrated iron rounds for mermaids and sirens. If it's an each uisge--"

"It'd probably be killing women."

"That's awfully heteronormative of you, Sam."

Sam blinks. "Do you even know what that means?"

Dean shrugs. "Bobby doesn't have a premium cable package, and there's only so much TVLand a man can watch, even with the sound off, so I've spent a lot of time on the internet the last few weeks. You know, there's stuff on there that isn't porn. I was disappointed and, just between you and me, a little shocked."

Sam laughs, but doesn't let himself be distracted anymore. "That's how you put this file together." He taps the folder.

"Pretty much." Dean stands, rubs his hands on his thighs. "I'm gonna go offer condolences to Mrs. Hoffman, see if there's anything there we should know about. You track down the families of the other guys and," he waves a hand, "you know."

Sam sighs. "I know."

Sam spends the rest of the afternoon on the phone, lying to grieving family members, and what he ends up with doesn't shed any light on the subject. He's always hated that part of the job, having to intrude on something as intimate as grief. He's never handled the intrusion well himself. He's not sure he's learned anything Dean didn't already know, which makes it even worse.

"I need food," Dean says when he comes back from talking to Mrs. Hoffman and whoever else he found to interview. He looks lost and sick, his mouth tight and his eyes shadowed.

"Learn anything interesting?" Sam asks when they're in the car. It's still the place Dean seems most comfortable in, which makes sense, since it's the closest thing either of them have to a home.

"Not really." Dean shakes his head, taps the steering wheel absently. "Hoffman's mother died a couple weeks ago. Cancer, not," he waves a hand, "our kind of thing. They were going to postpone the vacation, but the kids didn't really understand why, so they didn't."

"Shit."

"Yeah. You think it's connected?"

Sam looks at him, working it through. "Tremblay lost his wife last year, had come down here with friends to get back in the swing of things, but apparently his heart wasn't in it."

"Yeah. They ruled him a suicide."

"And the others were ruled accidental drownings, right?"

"Yeah." Dean nods, rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Okay, so maybe a lorelei? Luring lonely men to their deaths? But I thought those were mostly attached to rivers."

"Yeah, when they live in the ocean, they're sirens."

"Okay, a siren, then." Dean pulls in at the diner, turns to face Sam once the car is safely parked. "And Hoffman lost his mother, not his wife. So maybe just grieving men?"

Sam's stomach clenches in fear, and he has a sudden image of Dean's body floating back to shore, black and bloated. "Maybe." It comes out tight, strangled.

Dean watches him carefully. "You okay, there, Sammy?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Frog in my throat."

Dean nods and gets out of the car. "We should do some more research, see if this is the first year this has happened, or if there's a bigger pattern. Then we should probably talk to Marie. See what she knows."

"Her family's owned that motel for a long time," Sam says. "You think maybe..." He shrugs one shoulder as he follows Dean into the diner. "We should take another look at those pictures in the office. Maybe they're not her mother and her aunts. Maybe she's a lot older than she looks."

Dean nods. "I'm not ruling anything out just yet."

"Yeah."

For someone who claimed to be ravenous when they left the motel, Dean doesn't eat much. He's half-hearted about his burger and he lets Sam steal fries off his plate with only a token protest. He doesn't even complain when Sam eyes him like a hawk on the drive back.

Marie is locking the office door when they arrive. "I'm sorry," she says with a small, sad smile. "Charlotte's not feeling well. She's a sensitive girl." She trails off, shaking her head. "All this death. It's not good for her nerves. We've been here many years, but maybe it's time for us to go." She sounds like she's talking more to herself than to them.

"No problem," Dean says. "We'll come back in the morning."

Sam looks at him, surprised and annoyed, but Dean just gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, so Sam doesn't say anything.

Marie nods her thanks and heads to the pale green bungalow at the far end of the row.

"We can break into the office later, when it's dark," Dean says when they're back in their room. "Maybe stake out her bungalow, after."

Sam nods, forces himself into a hunting headspace, where waiting is just another part of the job. He's never been as fidgety as Dean, but he's always had a hard time with the hurry up and wait aspect of hunting. The sun doesn't set until about twenty after seven, and there's a long twilight before it's really dark enough for illegal activities. They have some time to kill.

They sit in the living room and watch some Adam Sandler movie that neither of them laughs at until the cops clear off the beach. Dean rolls up the cuffs of his jeans, grabs the EMF meter and heads outside. Sam follows, and from two steps behind he hears the telltale squeal. Dean grunts and shrugs a shoulder, tipping his head towards the electrical lines in the distance that could be the source of the noise.

They walk the curve of the shoreline; the cold water feels good against Sam's bare feet and ankles and the sound of the surf crashing against the sand is hypnotic. He thinks about going for a swim. They walk for about half a mile, the beach becoming more crowded the further they get from The Beachcomber and the scene of the crime.

"You should have put on some sunblock," Sam says, eyeing the nape of Dean's neck, which is red and angry, and when he runs his thumb over it, hot to the touch.

"Oh, fuck you," Dean mutters, but there's no heat in his voice, and he turns back towards the motel without arguing.

***

Sam sits on the little patio for a while, watching the sun set, flipping through the file Dean put together. He laughs at himself, that he'd believed they were actually on vacation, and had bought some trashy legal thrillers to read on the beach. They sit beside his bed, untouched. He stays out until the sun has dipped below the horizon and the brilliant orange and pink sky has faded to twilight. And the mosquitoes have come out.

The air conditioning is a welcome relief when he gets back inside. Dean is flopped out on the couch in front of the television, clicking around looking for something to watch. When he finds a baseball game, he wiggles his fingers at Sam, who's lived with him long enough to know that means bring me the chips and a beer. Normally, Sam would argue for a few minutes first, but tonight, he doesn't. He even opens the little container of French onion dip they bought and puts it on a paper plate on the coffee table next to where Dean's got his feet propped up.

Sam settles into the squishy easy chair with the folder, even though he's now read through it three or four times. "You're right."

"Of course I am," Dean says without glancing away from the television. "What exactly am I right about this time?"

"I should have asked you what you wanted to do."

"Damn straight."

"We--I was only trying--I didn't mean--"

Dean finally looks over at him. "I thought I said I didn't want to have this conversation."

"I'm sorry."

Dean shakes his head. "Whatever."

"Dean, seriously, I mean it."

"Seriously, Sam. I get it. I do. You were trying to help. You and Bobby and everybody else. And I appreciate it. But we're not talking about this right now." He takes a sip of beer. "Not while the bases are loaded and the Mets are down by three."

Sam sighs and starts flipping through their notes again, sneaking peeks at the television when the crowd roars, and at Dean to watch his response. Dean yawns a few times, and looks like he might just fall asleep right there in front of the TV, exciting game or not. Sam doesn't tease him about it; better he rest up now, so he can stay awake later. And it's not like he's not working off a massive sleep debt. Sam knows one night of decent sleep after weeks without isn't enough.

Dean comes alive for the Mets' miraculous rally in the ninth, jumping off the couch when David Wright hits a walk-off home run, but when the post-game show starts, he stretches and yawns, knuckling his eyes. He looks like an exhausted little kid for a second, and Sam feels a tight ache in his chest.

"Okay," Dean says around another yawn. "Let's do this."

"I can do it myself, if you want to, uh..." He trails off and flaps a hand at Dean, suddenly realizing that Dean's not going to take the offer well. "You know."

Dean just glares at him and shakes his head. Sam sighs in relief.

The office is easy to break into, and even in the limited light of their flashlights, Dean seems sure that Sam's right. "Look," he says, using his pinky finger to point at the mole beneath Marie's mouth. "Unless she's drawing it on to look like dear old mom, I'd say this is the same woman." He chews at the cuticle on his thumb, a telltale sign that he's thinking, then, "I guess this is your siren, Sam."

"She's not _my_ siren, Dean. I'm not the one who's been flirting with her the whole time."

"Whatever. We can stake out her bungalow from the roof of ours. I've got the binoculars."

Sam eyes the roof overhanging the patio warily. "I'm not sure it will hold our weight."

"Then you can do that part yourself," Dean answers, yawning again, now that they're back inside their bungalow. "There are earplugs in my bag."

"Okay." He finds the earplugs and the binoculars, but stops at the door of the patio. "I think we should salt the doors and the windows," he says.

Dean looks startled, but says, "Okay," in a tone of voice that lets Sam know he's being humored. Sam is okay with that.

"I'll take care of it."

"Don't fall asleep on the roof," Dean says. "And don't fucking fall off, okay?"

"Okay," Sam says again, laughing.

Dean's in bed with the lights out by the time Sam is done. Sam laughs to himself and decides that in the morning the mocking will be epic.

He uses one of the wooden deck chairs for a boost and swings himself up onto the flat ledge covering the patio. He settles with his back against the slanted roof and raises the binoculars to his eyes. It's cooler at night, but the slate shingles are warm against his back, and he finds it hard to keep his eyes open. Must be all that sea air, he thinks.

After the fifth (or is it the sixth? He's lost track) time he finds himself dozing, he clambers down from the roof with a sigh and heads inside. They're not going to learn anything else tonight.

Dean appears to be asleep and Sam doesn't want to disturb him if he is, though he's tempted to wake him and tell him to put the earplugs in. He doesn't put them in himself--he wants to be able to hear Dean if anything happens. He's not sure they'd actually work, anyway. He stays up for a little while, reading about sirens on the internet, but he's having trouble staying awake, so he shuts the laptop, slides under the covers, and goes to sleep.

***

The water is cold and rough, and Sam has to fight to keep his head above the waves. He can hear her calling him, voice rising in a song that breaks his heart even as it draws him onward. He knows she's out here somewhere, just beyond the next wave. He's wearing himself out, each stroke harder to complete than the last, his arms and legs heavy as lead.

He can feel himself sinking, the water closing over his head, burning cold and salty in his lungs.

He wakes up coughing and gasping, bolts upright, expecting Dean to be there at his bedside, but Dean is cocooned in the other bed, his breathing deep and even in a way it hasn't been since he came back.

"Dean." Sam swings his legs out of bed and stumbles, still gulping down air like he'd actually been drowning. He can still hear her voice ringing in his ears. "_Dean_." He shakes Dean's shoulder and has to jump back as Dean comes up swinging wildly.

"What? What? Sam?" Dean's voice is rough and thick with sleep.

"Can't you hear it?"

"All I hear is bells."

"We have to go, Dean. We have to go now." He pulls on his jeans and comes back to Dean's bedside, where Dean is still sitting, staring at him in confusion. "Dean?"

"Oh, fuck." Dean scrubs a hand over his face, finally waking up. He pulls his own clothes on, grabs his .45 and tucks it into the back of his jeans, letting his t-shirt cover it. "What do you hear, Sam?"

"Singing. I hear singing. It's--it's the saddest thing I've ever heard, Dean." It makes him feel like he felt when he was holding Dean's torn and lifeless body in his arms, like the world is ending and there's nothing he or anyone else can do to stop it. "Dean?"

"I'm right here, Sammy." Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and familiar. "Let's go hunt this bitch down."

The sand is cool against his bare feet, and he can feel sand fleas feasting on his ankles, but he doesn't care. He has to stop the singing before it drives him mad. "I'm not going to let her take you," he says, looking over his shoulder at the solid shadow of Dean behind him.

"I know, Sam."

"I mean it, Dean. I'm not letting you go again."

"Easy, tiger." Dean pats Sam's chest lightly. "Let me take the lead on this one, okay?" He shoulders his way past Sam, the beam of his flashlight rippling eerily over the water. Sam follows, dread knotting his stomach and making his palms sweaty against the grip of his gun.

"There," he says, spotting two figures struggling with each other, thigh-deep in the water.

Dean grabs him before he can run into the surf. "Hold on a minute, Sam," Dean mutters, then, louder, as the flashlight sweeps over them, "Goddammit, Charlotte, you need to shut the fuck up now or I'm gonna have to shoot you."

Charlotte starts crying, but doesn't stop singing. She looks terrified. Marie is shaking her, but it doesn't seem to be having the effect she wants. Sam flings himself at them, water soaking his jeans as he pushes against the tide. He doesn't have room to be surprised, though he thinks he probably should be; all he can think about is silencing Charlotte's song.

"Sam, wait," Dean yells, but Sam ignores him and tackles the two women to the ground, water rushing over them as they scramble in the sand.

Finally, Charlotte stops singing, her voice abruptly cut off when Sam slaps his hand over her mouth. Her pulse flutters wildly beneath the fingers of his other hand as he tightens it around her throat, fingertips probing the delicate spot at the base of her skull. She struggles beneath him, but she's tiny, hardly more than a child, and without her voice, she has no weapon to fight him.

Marie beats on his arms, his shoulders, with small, ineffectual fists. "Stop," she says, her face wet with sea spray and tears. "Please, stop."

"Sam." Dean's voice cuts through the red haze in Sam's brain, and now that Charlotte's stopped singing, he can think again. "Sam, get out of the way." Dean tips his head towards the shore, gun and flashlight trained steadily on Charlotte. Sam levers himself up off the girl, but keeps his hand over her mouth. She leans against him limply, letting him support her weight. "You killed those men," Dean says, and Charlotte nods. Sam can feel tears and sweat and seawater dripping down her face; her chest heaves in a shuddering sob.

"She's a good girl," Marie says, taking a step towards Dean, her hands held up in surrender, in supplication. "She didn't mean to."

"Four men drowned, and Sam could have _died_, and all you can say is _she didn't mean to_?" Dean asks incredulously.

"She can't control it yet. She's young and untrained. We weren't sure she would even--Her father was human." Marie takes another step.

"Don't come any closer," Dean says. "I can end this here and now; one round of consecrated iron for each of you, and all our problems disappear."

"I've done my best to protect the town. To protect you," Marie says, and in the yellow glow of Dean's flashlight, droplets of water clinging to her like jewels, she looks like an otherworldly creature, the silver and gold of her hair tumbling over her shoulders like seaweed coming unbraided, and her beautiful face gleaming with tears like mother-of-pearl. "You were vulnerable."

"And what about him?" Dean demands, jerking his head towards Sam.

"He has power," she says simply. "He should have protected himself."

Sam's face burns with embarrassment, and he knows, even if Marie doesn't, that it was completely the wrong thing to say to Dean.

"What about all the other people who couldn't protect themselves?" Dean asks, his voice rough and hard. "Killing you both now would be a damn sight more effective than anything you've done to protect people."

Sam tries to ignore Charlotte's terrified whimper and the way she shakes in his arms, how small she feels, like a songbird fluttering its clipped wings.

"I'll take her away. Now that we know." Marie brushes her hair off her face, and the glamour of power fades from her features; she looks old and tired and all too human. "My sisters are all gone. She's the only family I have left. Please, let me take her. I've begun teaching her, so no one else will get hurt."

Sam watches Dean, who closes his eyes and swallows hard, lips pressed in a tight, thin line. The moment stretches, and Sam waits, ready to follow Dean's lead, unsure for once of what he'll do.

"Okay," Dean says finally, lowering the gun. "But you have to go now."

Marie nods and wipes away her tears.

Sam can feel Charlotte take a deep, shuddering breath in relief. "If I let you go, you can't sing," he says to her, who nods and mumbles something muffled by his hand.

He lets her go and she stumbles towards Marie, who gathers her close in a desperate embrace. Marie smoothes back Charlotte's wet, tangled hair and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us just yet," Dean says. "We'll be keeping an eye out, and we've got a lot of friends who know what to look for, so if you think you're just gonna skip town and set up shop somewhere else, it ain't gonna happen."

Sam knows, even if Marie doesn't, that Dean is mostly bluffing--there aren't near enough hunters to track down every evil thing out there, and people occasionally drowning in the ocean rarely looks like their kind of thing. Dean's one of the few people who could have put together this case, and probably only because he had so much time to research it before they even got here.

"I hope you realize how lucky you are," Sam says. "Most hunters wouldn't be giving you a second chance."

Charlotte sniffles, obviously trying to get her crying under control, and buries her face against Marie's shoulder.

Marie gives first Dean and then Sam a regal nod, and even though she looks worn and sad, Sam can believe that men threw themselves overboard for her approval, drowned to follow her voice and see her smile. She tucks Charlotte to her side, keeps an arm wrapped around the girl's thin shoulders. "Come, Charlotte. Don't look back."

The two women walk into the ocean. Sam watches until they disappear beneath the waves.

"Dean--"

"I didn't think," Dean says, low and guilty. "I should have told you. Should have warned you." He gives a short, bitter laugh. "Should have made you keep the damned earplugs in."

"I don't think the earplugs would have mattered." Sam thinks of his own obliviousness, remembers the dream he didn't think twice about forgetting, and shakes his head. "We salted the room."

Dean closes his eyes, bites his lower lip. If he were anyone else, Sam would say he was praying for strength. "Salt doesn't work on sea creatures, Sam."

"You couldn't have known." Sam sloshes back to shore, the legs of his jeans soaked and cold and heavy against his skin. He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, knowing Dean won't allow a hug in this situation. That much hasn't changed.

"I'm tired," Dean says, and Sam can barely hear him over the sound of the waves. "First good night's sleep I've had since--" He swallows hard and then laughs again. This time, it's a little broken, a little rueful, but there's real humor and warmth in it. He cuffs the back of Sam's head lightly. "And you have to go and get yourself _lured_ by a siren."

"It won't happen again," Sam promises.

"Better not. Next time I'll just let her have you." They start walking back to the motel. "For a deadly sea creature, she sure was hot."

"Dude, she's like, _fifteen_."

"I meant Marie."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Sam yawns and stretches. "Maybe you were right about the beach sucking after all."

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, the beach is pretty cool." He bumps Sam's shoulder with his own, gives him a wide smile, and Sam finds he can't disagree.

***

They pack up and check out early in the morning. The office is still locked, so Sam leaves the key on the table in the kitchenette. They'll be long gone by the time anyone discovers Marie and Charlotte are missing.

Dean looks up from picking at the peeling skin on his right arm. "If you still want that vacation--"

"No," Sam answers, smiling. "I think I've had enough vacation."

"You're just scared I'll kick your ass at mini golf again."

Sam laughs. "Uh huh. That's exactly what I'm scared of."

"It's okay, Sammy. Not everyone can be as awesome as I am." Dean grins and throws a rolled up bit of skin at him.

"Oh, gross."

"Shut up, you big baby." Dean pelts him with another ball of skin before getting into the car. "It's just skin."

Sam slides into the passenger seat beside him, and the world rights itself on its axis. He gives up the fight against the itchiness on his legs and reaches down to scratch at the bug bites covering his ankles. He'll have to pick up some calamine the next time they go shopping.

"What's next?" he asks.

Dean grins and pulls out into traffic.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> While many of the places mentioned in this story do exist, the Beachcomber is not one of them (at least to my knowledge). Also, it's been years since I've actually been to LBI, so though some of these bars and restaurants do still exist, they may be very different from how I knew them. The title comes from a line in the poem "Pablo Neruda Lemons" by Kelli Russell Agodon. The prompt was: case file - subject of your choice - featuring Sam, Dean and at least one original character.


End file.
